Fiona McArthur - Escape For Mother's Day - The French Tycoon's Pregnant Mistress

He nodded. ‘That sounds perfect. Thank you.’

Alana busied herself turning on the oven and putting potatoes on to boil. When she looked back over to the sitting room, she could see that Pascal was looking through her CDs. She had a moment of clarity. What was she doing? She was meant to be rushing him out of the house, not cooking him dinner! But, she had to concede, it had been easy to ask him. And he had sent her all those amazing flowers. If she was never going to see him after tonight, then what was the harm in a little dinner?

Happy that she’d justified her actions to herself, and not willing to pay attention to the hum of something in her blood, when she heard the strains of her favourite jazz CD coming from the sound system, she found it soothing rather than scary.

‘I hope you don’t mind?’

She looked over to where Pascal was hunched down at the system, the material of his trousers and shirt straining over taut, hard muscles in his thighs and back. She shook her head, her mouth feeling very dry.

‘No … no.’ She took another hasty gulp of wine. Oh God.

By the time Alana was taking his cleared plate from him, and apologising again that their dinner had been on their knees, she was smiling at something he’d just said. As she’d been preparing the dinner, they’d started up an innocuous conversation, and in the course of eating had managed to touch on films, books, French politics, the Six Nations and rugby. She’d found herself telling him about her father’s career playing for Ireland, unable to keep the pride from her voice. And she hadn’t mistaken the gleam of something unfathomable in his eyes. Even though he’d told her he hadn’t wanted to play, had he harboured ambitions?

She came back and sat down, tucking her legs under her. She’d slipped off her shoes. She felt energised, zingy, as if she could stay up all night.

To her surprise, she saw Pascal look at his watch and then he drained his glass of wine. He stood up and Alana felt unaccountably disorientated. She stood too. The space between them was electric.

‘I’m afraid I have to go.’

Alana immediately felt crushed, silly, exposed. She should have been grinning from ear to ear, racing to hand him his coat, saying good riddance—so why did she feel her stomach hollowing out at the thought? The old pain of past misjudgements rose up like a spectre.

‘Oh, well. I can imagine you must have some business here. Somewhere else to be?’

He shook his head and came close. Alana couldn’t back away as the chair was just behind her legs. Her heart was thumping so hard she felt it must be visible under her top.

‘I’ve got important meetings at home all weekend. It’s too boring to go into. But I need to make my flight slot tonight, otherwise I’ll miss my first meeting in the morning.’

Alana’s jaw dropped. ‘You’re going back to Paris ? Now?’

He nodded.

The knowledge was having trouble sinking into her brain: he had come all the way to Dublin just to see her for a few hours; it was too much for her to take in.

‘I … I …’

Her shock was obviously transparent.

He pulled a quirky, sexy smile. ‘It was worth it, Alana. Just to see you again. I’ve been thinking about you all week. I can’t seem to get you out of my head.’

‘I …’ Her powers of speech had been rendered null and void. He was coming closer, making speech even more elusive and unlikely.

He was now so close that her head was tipped back to look into those dark, dark eyes. She felt a warm finger come under her chin, stroking the smooth skin, his thumb on her chin. She couldn’t move.

His scent enveloped her in a haze of desire, desire that she’d never felt before. She fancied that she could hear his heartbeat too. Then he spoke and his voice was harsh. ‘I told myself I wouldn’t do this now. But … I can’t not. You’re more intoxicating to me than anything or anyone I’ve ever known. And all week I’ve been imagining what it would be like.’

She swallowed, ‘What what would be like?’ But she knew. And heaven help her but she’d been imagining it too. She knew she had; she’d just been denying it.

He said the words and something awful like relief flowed through her.

‘To kiss you.’

With his finger still under her chin, no other parts of their bodies touching, he bent his head to hers. Past, present and future collided in the moment that her eyelids fluttered closed, and she felt his mouth touch hers. It was a brief press of his lips to hers, a testing, tasting. But it ignited a flame of raw desire along every one of Alana’s veins.

When he drew back slightly, she made a treacherous sound in her throat. She wanted more than that brief all-too-chaste kiss. And so did he evidently.

This time it wasn’t chaste and benedictory, this time it was forceful, both their mouths pressing together, tasting, experiencing. The finger at her chin was gone. His hand slid round to the back of her head, flicked away the band tying her hair in a ponytail and threaded through the soft, silky strands to cradle her skull in his hand. His other arm slid around her slim waist and pulled her into him. Her arms automatically went to his shoulders and clung for support.

The feel of his body pressed up close to hers was short-circuiting her system. He was hard all over, and so strong. She could feel his chest muscles flex against her soft curves when his arm tightened around her, pulling her even closer.

While their bodies melded together, their mouths remained fused. Pascal pulled back briefly and Alana looked up into those amazing eyes that were burning, reflecting a fire she felt deep in her belly, where a very hard part of him was making her want to move restlessly. She was stunned by everything. She felt confused; she could feel herself tremble with reaction. She frowned slightly, her mouth opened.

Pascal pressed a finger to her mouth. The softness of her lips and her warm breath made him harder, and he almost groaned out loud with the need to take her now, to sink into her yielding, silky warmth. But he knew that she wasn’t far from letting her head take over, from possibly pushing him away. ‘Don’t think. Don’t speak. Just feel. ’

This time when his mouth touched hers it was slightly open. Breaths mingled and wove together, and for one split second neither of them breathed. And then Pascal slid his tongue between her lips and Alana’s hands clutched at his shoulders. She’d been kissed like this before; of course she had. But whenever Ryan had kissed her, it had always been rough and with no finesse.

But this was in another league. Pascal’s tongue danced erotically with hers, advanced and retreated, inviting her to follow him. And she did. Winding her arms tight around his neck, pressing even closer, she slid her tongue into his mouth and was rewarded with a low guttural moan. It was the sexiest feeling, and she was controlling the pace, the movements. She savoured his full lower lip, felt it with her tongue, let it glide across the surface before allowing their tongues to duel again.

When she felt him snake a hand under her top, to feel the skin above her trousers, the curve of her waist, her legs trembled in earnest. Their kisses stilled for a second, as if he was waiting to see what signal she would give. She nipped his lower lip gently and she could feel him half-smile against her mouth.

His hand slid higher over her smooth back, to just below the clasp of her bra. His hand was so big she imagined it could span her entire back. With a practised flick of his wrist and fingers, he opened the clasp. Alana felt her bra loosen, but she was lost in a maelstrom of lust so strong that she wanted nothing more than for him take the weight and fullness of her breast into his palm—which he promptly did, sliding his whole hand around her ribs as if loath not to caress every part of her. The sensation was so shockingly electric that she gasped and wrenched her mouth from his, breathing jerkily.